


Derailment

by KaireeDahl



Series: Sabriel, the AU Chronicles [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Awesome Bobby Singer, Bobby Singer Deals With Idjits, Canon-Typical Violence, Coffee, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mental Instability, Monsters, Murder, Oblivious Dean Winchester, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-04-22 21:33:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14317596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaireeDahl/pseuds/KaireeDahl
Summary: Dean arrives at Stanford to ask for Sam's help looking for Dad, but instead gets an unpleasant surprise.  His brother left two months previous after the gruesome murder of his roommate.  Now tasked with finding both of the stubbornest men in his life, things get a little bit... derailed.





	1. An Unpleasant Surprise

**Author's Note:**

> Currently unedited. I've been arguing with this chapter for a while and I finally just said 'screw it.' And posted it.
> 
> My update schedule is this: I've no fracking clue.
> 
> Note #1: I recommend reading 'Of Candy Bars and Golden Retrievers' first. Just to get a feel for the basis of the AU.  
> Note #2: If you read 'Gabriel' please be advised this is a complete re-imagining of the same premise. You might see similar elements to the previous story, but the plot line will be very different as well.  
> Pretty sure I didn't explain that very well, but hopefully you'll understand after the chapter.
> 
> Please leave me your comments and reviews!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any other pop culture items that Dean references.

“Can...can you repeat that?” Dean asked, a terrified note in his voice. The woman manning the ornate wooden desk gave him a sympathetic look.

“I'm afraid Sam Winchester left the school over two months ago.”

“Do you know _why_?”

“I believe it might have something to do with the murder about a week before.” She admitted, a strange gleam entering her eye as she leaned forward. Dean copied her obligingly. “They say that the boy who was killed was his friend.” She whispered conspiratorially. “And now they've got no leads.”

Dean frowned internally at the new information, but plastered on a grateful smile for the gossip. “Thank you. Do you know if he left a forwarding address?”

She hummed and shuffled through the folder on her desk.

“Ah, here it is!” She congratulated herself. “He moved out of the dormitories about a year ago and listed an apartment off-campus. I'd ask either his former RA or the building super.”

“Thanks for your help, ma'am.” He gave her another charming smile.

She swooned a bit and commented quietly on “such a charming young man!” He knew she'd be spreading that little interaction around, but at the moment, he didn't really care.

His little brother was missing. Possibility that he was being chased by something was high, as the boy had firmly said he'd never hunt again. Which didn't help with Dean's worry at all.

As he walked out of the building into the bright California sunlight, the smile slipped off his face. He ran a hand over his eyes and sighed.

“Sir, are you alright?” A quiet, gentle voice asked.

Dean looked up and observed the owner.

Blonde, pretty, bright colors, college student. In other words, completely his type.

“Better now.” He smirked flirtatiously.

She surprised him by rolling her eyes and taking a careful catalog of his face.

“Are, by any chance, related to Sam Winchester?”

Dean blinked at her for a moment.

“Uh, yeah, I am. How'd you know?”

“Your nose,” she replied, tapping her own. “It's the same as his.”

Dean's hand lifted to feel his nose. He glanced incredulously at her.

“Really?”

She gave him a sage nod. Then, her expression turned far more somber.

“Are you looking for him? Sam?” He nodded. “Mrs. Andron already tell you he's left?” He sighed and nodded once more.

“She also mentioned something about a murder. Said the victim was his friend...?” He let the question trail off.

She turned slightly and shot the building he'd emerged from a frosty look. Then she sighed and gestured him over to one of the benches lining the quad.

Dean sat next to her.

“The only reason I'm telling you this is because you're his brother. I wouldn't tell just anyone this.” She took a deep breath. “The...victim, as you called him, was a doctor at the hospital, not a student, named Gabriel Coelum. Sam and him were indeed... friends.” The girl gave him an unreadable expression. “Three weeks ago, his body was found in an abandoned warehouse by a couple of frat pledges. I only know what one of the pledges told me,” she warned, “so I can't tell how truthful it was.”

“I still want to know.” Dean confirmed. She nodded and continued.

“He said that Gabe's body was... in bad condition.” She said haltingly.

“Like he'd been there for a long time or like he was...?” He spoke gently.

She took a deep steadying breath.

“Like he'd been tortured.”

“Do they know who did it?”

She shook her head.

“They're being tight lipped about what they know, but they've made no arrests and they've stopped coming by for interviews and evidence.”

“What did Sam do when he found out?” Dean was hesitant to even ask the question.

“He went catatonic.” The girl said giving a bitter little laugh. She wiped at one of the tears welling in her eye. “For a few days he didn't even talk, stopped going to class, stopped leaving his apartment, I'm pretty sure he stopped eating, too.”

“But then...” he prompted.

“But then the police came by to ask some things, let something slip that seemed to terrify him.” She rubbed her eyes again. “He started talking again, but it was... manic and strange. He... it was like he couldn't even see me. I was invisible. I'd visit him every day, bring his homework, notes, food, make sure he'd eaten, tidy up a bit. He didn't ever speak directly to me. Then, one day, when I brought him lunch, his door was wide open, most of his clothes gone, pictures gone, a mess of salt everywhere. The super said that Sam tore out of there like a bat out of hell. Foisted his keys on the landlord, told him to sell whatever he left and took off in his car.”

“Do you have any idea where he went?” Dean didn't like where this story was cutting off. If the apartment had already been sold off and rented out, he had no where to start and nothing to go off.

She shook her head, but then tilted it consideringly. She pulled out her wallet and fished a crumbled up piece of paper out of it. It was a photo of four people, Sam, two men, and the girl. Stuck to the back was a sticky note with an address and the name Claer Torag.

“I already went. It's a little occult shop about thirty minutes away, I think it was for a school project, but you might see something that I don't.” She smiled a little at the picture.

Dean ran a careful finger over the photo's crease marks.

“Who are the other two?” He asked when the silence stretched on a little too long.

“Brady's on the left. The man on the right, that's Gabe.” A few more tears alighted her eyes but didn't fall.

“Thank you. For this and for helping Sam.” Dean told her sincerely, pulling his own wallet out. He froze halfway though, and asked, “I'm sorry, did you want to keep this picture?”

She shook her head as Dean cheered internally.

“I have my own copy.”

“Thank you, again.” He placed it carefully inside his wallet.

“No problem.” He stood and started to walk away, but was halted by the soft hand on his arm. “Find him, will you?”

“Of course.” She smiled. She stood up as well, shouldering her bag.

“I never got you're name.” He realized.

“It's Jess. I hope to see you again, Dean.”

“I hope so, too.”

~~

Well, not as helpful as he'd hoped, but it was more than he had before. Making his way to the address listed, he wasn't incredibly surprised to find it to be less of a hoodoo occult shop and more of an incense, candles, and yoga “occult” shop. The door even had a little bell above the door that chimed faintly as he stepped in.

The place smelled _very_ strongly of sage, cinnamon, rosemary and something else, he also started to sneeze a little. He wondered if it was due to the sheer amount of scents or that he was allergic to something.

His question was answered when a displeased looking fluffy ball with a tail jumped onto the counter, scaring a little shout that was definitely not a yelp out of him.

“Not a fan of cats, sir?” A voice rang out from behind him.

Dean spun around, not comfortable with having missed two presences within the shop.

The girl, for she was definitely a girl of probably only eighteen or nineteen, was another blonde with wide blue eyes and a curious look on her face.

“I'm allergic.” He finally replied, trying not to breath in too deeply.

She seemed a bit unimpressed but obligingly picked up the cat, ugly though it were, in her arms and carried him off to somewhere behind the counter. A few minutes later she returned.

“Can I help you find anything?” She asked, tilting her head. “I don't mean to sound rude, but you don't look like my usual type of customer.”

“Ah... yeah.” He started but stopped, not entirely sure where he wanted to start. Finally, he pulled out the photo, peeling the sticky note off and handing it to her. “My brother wrote this note before disappearing. I wanted to know if you could tell me what he came here for.”

She took the note from him and frowned.

“What's your brother's name?”

“Sam. Sam Winchester.”

Her frown deepened.

She turned around and pulled a small package off the shelf behind her, carefully wrapped in a blue silk. She handed it to him.

“I was holding this for him. I called to tell him it came in. He was supposed to come in a few weeks ago, but when he didn't show, I figured he he just forgot.”

“What is it?” He asked, careful not to open the wrappings.

She shrugged.

“I don't know. Guy came in, said it was for Sam Winchester and gave me the number to call.”

“Can you describe the man?” She nodded and waited for Dean to pull out a notebook and pen.

“Curly, dark hair, short, kinda stocky, bright blue eyes, bit of a beard.”

“Did he leave a name?” She shook her head.

“Anything else you can tell me?”

“Just that the guy I talked to on the phone didn't sound completely there.”

“Thanks for your help.”

She nodded and absentmindedly asked, “Are you gonna buy anything?”

Dean glanced once more around the shop dubiously.

“Is there anything here that will help me find someone?”

She considered him for a moment. Then, after digging through a cubby on the wall, she brought out small stone with a red eye painted on it and a silver chain with another small smooth rock, only this one had a rune of some kind carved into it.

“The Seeing Stone is only usable once, but it shows you exactly what you're looking for.” At Dean's eager look, she clarified. “It shows _exactly,_ as in, if he's indoors, you will see him, inside a house or a hotel room, no addresses no coordinates, and it only works once for about a minute.”

Dean's face fell hearing the description.

“And the other?” He asked hopefully.

“That is called the Pathfinder. Nearly limitless uses, but once its been... attuned to a certain goal, that is the only one it will lead to. It works by showing you the path to your goal, however,” she interrupted, once more putting a stop to his eager hopefulness, “more often than not, it's not a direct route. The path you _need_ to take can be subjective. It will get you there, but who knows how long it will take.”

Dean paused, thinking it over.

On one hand, if he used the Seeing Stone, he'd be able to tell mostly how Sam was doing, but only once. And conditions changed. Alternatively, he could use it to see if Dad was in trouble, though again, finding the man would be near impossible especially alone.

The other object, the Pathfinder, seemed both useful and convoluted. Depending on what _path_ the _rock_ thought he needed to take, it could be years before he saw Sam again. But it was guaranteed to lead him to Sam... or Dad.

That was the problem, wasn't it. If he used the Seeing Stone to search for Dad and it turned out he was in trouble, he wouldn't know anything about Sam's condition. And the reverse was true, as well. And if it turned out that both were in trouble he'd only be able to commit the Pathfinder to finding one.

So, either Dad or Sam. That was his choice.

Dean nodded.

“How much for both?”

“Forty dollars total.” She replied ringing it up on the register.

He handed over the bills and slipped the leather cord around his neck.

“How do I work either of these?”

“Burn a sachet of thyme and lemongrass and place the Seeing Stone on your forehead. Then say the words, 'Deíxe mou ti thélo.'” She passed the stone over, placed it a brown paper bag with the herbs and a slip of paper. “To attune the Pathfinder- you know how to purify a space, right?- find something small, related to your goal and tie it to the stone with twine. Then, place it in an open flame for twenty-four hours. Once the stone has been attuned, all you need to do is dangle the stone over a map and say the words, 'Ostende semita.' It'll show you where it thinks you should go next.”

A rock telling him where to go. Wonderful. Dean considered for a moment whether he was okay, mentally.

“Other than that,” she continued, heedless of his thoughts, “since you're looking for someone, it helps to do the ritual somewhere heavy with their presence, like where they were last seen.”

“Thanks.” He nodded to her and made his way quickly out of the shop.

Sitting is his car didn't do anything to alleviate his growing panic, so he quickly moved his mind onto other things. More important things, like where Sam would buy an apartment.

He tore out of the parking lot and began a slow, watchful circle around the campus. There were many apartment buildings surrounding the school, they obviously saw the opportunity, but most of them were pretty much just off campus frat houses.

Dean leered for a moment at a few blonde coeds washing cars on the lawn of one brownstone building. Eventually, though, they were out of sight and he continued his search.

The building would probably be marketed towards the over twenty-five college students, recognizing the difference in maturity. It would probably be one of the new post-moderns or a well-kept older one.

He drove in a widening spiral, with the new criteria in mind, and after twenty minutes, decided on a six story white stone building with black edging. It looked very calm, sophisticated and how Sam liked to act.

This had to be it.

He pulled into the lot and made his way to the front door. It had one of those infuriating new electronic scanner locks on it, with an old call box nestled underneath.

He pressed the button.

It beeped at him for a minute before a tinny voice rang out from the speaker.

“Welcome to the Ivory Palisades. Are you visiting one of our residents?” Dean pressed the button once more to respond.

“Actually, I needed to ask about a former resident. Sam Winchester.”

The box was silent a long moment, likely looking up the records.

“Who is requesting the information?”

“His brother, Dean Winchester.”

“Alright, he's listed you as an authorized visitor. Please make your way to the front office.”

There was an electronic buzz and a click. Dean pulled at the door, which swung open on well-oiled hinges.

He strode in the building, somewhat surprised by the understated interior. Warm wooden furniture, iron and brass statues and decoration, earth-toned rugs. Not all pretentious like the name would imply.

There was a short Italian man standing at an open door down the hall, he gestured for Dean to follow. The Winchester shrugged and complied.

“Tea or coffee?” The Italian asked when Dean entered. “And please, sit.” He motioned to the comfy-looking armchairs in the corner.

“Uh, coffee, please.” He sat. The chair was even comfier than it looked.

The Italian finally made his way over the the other chair, two porcelain mug in his hands, steam rising off them both.

“I'm Richard Marisso.” He offered a hand, which Dean shook. “I'm pretty sure I know why you're here.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, don't worry, I didn't sell his stuff.” The man took a sip of his drink. “It's all packed up and ready for shipment if you want it.”

Dean took a long drink and thought up a response.

“Why'd you keep it? I thought Sam ran out and told you to sell everything?”

Richard gave him a considering look. “Can I be honest?” At Dean's careful nod, he continued. “I didn't like the look in his eyes.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was- what's the word- manic. Rushing about, stumbling over words, in a tizzy. I've been his land lord for two years, and I've never seen him like that before.” He took another sip. “After what happened, I don't blame him, but when he came to me like that, I thought he was on something. I thought after a few days he'd come back or I'd get word he wasn't. Neither happened. So I packed it up and waited for a relative” he gestured to Dean “to come by and collect his stuff. So, you got someplace you want me to send it?” The man had a form and a pen at the ready.

“Uh...” He thought quickly. “2194 Wallace Lane, Sioux Falls, South Dakota.”

“Sue is spelled...?”

“S-I-O-U-X.”

“Alright.” Richard stuck the form into a folder and shoved it onto his desk. “Anything else I can help you with today?”

“Uh, no, thanks.” He stood up, a good foot higher than the Italian, and shook his hand.

“No problem. If you find him, tell him I'd be willing to offer him another of my apartments.”

~~

Well. Not a whole lot of help. A shipment of Sam's stuff headed for Bobby's, two rituals to perform, and no locations to work from.

He sighed burying his head in his hands.

Why did his little brother, family in general really, have to be so goddamn complicated. Both men go missing at roughly the same time leaving him holding the bag. And this news about Sam's odd behavior, he didn't like it. If Sam really was 'on something,' then Dean would wager it was a magic or curse of some kind. The younger Winchester had tried recreational drugs twice before, once with a friend from school and once with Dean while Dad was on a hunt. He hadn't like it either time. Hell, the boy barely tolerated alcohol, not liking the 'fuzziness' his brain got when he drank too much.

The nerd.

But the problems still stood. Who did he go to when he needed help, information, and/or resources? Well, when neither Dad or Sam were available.

Bobby _fucking_ Singer.

Conveniently, that was where his subconscious had already sent Sam's stuff, so killing two birds with one stone. He liked it when things worked conveniently that way.

He sighed as he started his engine. It was a few days drive to Bobby's. Hopefully he made it there before Sam's stuff.

Either way, Bobby'd be pissed.

 


	2. Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Currently not beta'd  
> My update schedule is this: Unsteady, will advise when this changes
> 
> Note #1: I recommend reading 'Of Candy Bars and Golden Retrievers' first. Just to get a feel for the basis of the AU, though it's not required.  
> Not #2: I you read 'Gabriel' please be advised this is a complete re-imagining of the same premise. You might see similar elements to the previous story, but the plot line and approach will be different.
> 
> Please leave your comments, criticisms, and reviews!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any other pop culture items Dean references.

The rifle went off again, the shot landing a lot closer to his head than he'd like. Of course he'd like not to be dodging bullets and hiding behind gutted and rusty cars.

“C'mon Bobby! I don't- I mean, I didn't know where else to send it!” Dean called out from his crouched position.

“My house is full a shit!” Bobby shouted back. “And now yer here ta tell me you wanna hang about an bring in more shit!”

Dean peaked his head out. The older man was quick to reply with another shot. Dean quickly slipped back behind the car.

“Shit! Calm down, Bobby!” The was no response. “Bobby?” He called again cautiously.

Peering around the front of the car gave him a nice view of the now empty porch, the screen swinging closed.

Either Bobby was inside for more ammo or he was waiting for Dean to come inside.

He really hoped it was the latter.

He stood and dusted off his knees, shouldering his bag once more. The dog, Rumsfeld, growled at him as he approached but didn't lunge or bark. Dean felt that was a good indicator.

“Bobby?” The screen wasn't locked when he pushed and there wasn't any sound coming from any of the rooms the he could discern.

With a deep breath, Dean stepped into the living room... to find it full to the ceiling with unopened cardboard boxes. He to a look at one of the shipping labels.

Dean Winchester  
2194 Wallace Lane  
Sioux Falls, South Dakota 57101

Well, no wonder Bobby came out shooting. He counted twenty-one boxes floor to ceiling, and those were only the ones he could see in the living room. Who knows how many other rooms were this 'cluttered?'

“Look, Bobby. I just need to go through some of this stuff.” He turned back into the hallway, and carefully stepped past the closed bathroom door. “Then I can throw it away. It's important.”

“How important?” Bobby's weathered face was suddenly next to him as the man glared at him, bourbon in hand. Dean was relieved to note the absence of a rifle.

“Very.” Bobby continued glaring at him for several painfully long minutes. Finally, he nodded and walked to the kitchen.

Dean stood in the hall a moment longer, a bit befuddled. In the end, he followed along.

He found Bobby at the stove, stirring a pot filled with what was probably chili while a pot of coffee brewed off to the side. He longed for the caffeine, the drive having been long and exhausting. He may love his music but even he could only listen Led Zepplin a few times in a row before wanting to fall asleep.

Dean waited not so patiently, fidgeting in his seat, whilst Bobby ladled his soup into a bowl and sat down across from him.

“So what's so important about the boxes?” Bobby's tone demanded a straightforward answer and Dean was happy to give him one.

“They're Sam's.”

Bobby's head jerked up.

“Why d'ya got yer brother's things?” He asked carefully.

“Sam went missing two months ago.”

“Ya couldn't have led with that?!”

“You were shooting at me!”

“Don't be a baby, it's a pellet gun. Fer the squirrels 'n raccoons in the yard.”

“Well I didn't know that!”

“Idjit.” Bobby muttered in response. He sighed. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

And so, Dean did exactly that. Bobby was rather reserved in his reactions, when he mentioned the butchered friend Bobby furrowed his brows, but when he brought up the occult shop he outright frowned.

“Ya look at the package, yet?”

“No,” Dean shook his head, “I wanted to make sure it wasn't cursed, first.”

“Ya think it was sent by whatever's huntin Sam?”

“Your sure something's hunting him already?” Bobby grimaced.

“Yer brother's never been into this stuff the way you an yer daddy are. Girl ya talked to mentioned salt on the floor. Pro'bly a broken salt line.” He shook his head. “Somethin scary enough to get yer brother ta make a salt line, don't think it's somethin as simple as a ghost or poltergeist.”

“You got a theory?”

“Not yet,” another long sigh, “but if ya think going through his stuff'll help, go for it.” He switched to glaring at him once more. “But I want ya to throw that shit out when yer dun, got it?”

“Yessir.” Bobby nodded and stood.

“Get yerself some coffee, boy. Look like yer gonna fall over.”  
~~~  
Fifty-three boxes and a couch. Fifty-three.

Once it was dug out, Bobby was quick to claim it as his own and Dean honestly didn't blame him. The thing was comfy as hell and actually decent looking.

It took Dean three days and thirty of those fifty-three boxes to find anything interesting. And what he found was very interesting indeed.

It started with five boxes full of books. On the surface, it looked like it was just full of medical and law textbooks. But Dean risked a glance through one of the medical text and was surprised by what he found.

A journal, or rather, multiple journals for what appeared to be five separate hunters. Only one name was ever listed, Gabriel, on the inside of the covers. The other medical books were actually online articles on monster, crimes, spells, rituals etc. Carefully cut and glued into the hollowed spines.

The law texts were less interesting, seemingly filled with the correct pages, but sticky notes lined the edging with notes like, 'Useful for Stephan ghost case. Send to lawyer.' followed by a phone number. Dean found a binder full of articles and letters in the same box that corresponded to sticky notes.

“Hey Bobby?” The older man was only a room away, splitting his time between phone calls, computer searches, and rifling through his books.

“Yeah?” He was currently elbow deep in a pile of newer looking tomes, occasionally shoving one off to the side.

“You know a couple of hunters named Stephan Redices, Andrew Lordkin, and Marcus Josiah?” Bobby looked up.

“Yeah. They all got charged with murder or gravediggin this year.”

“They all got off, though?”

“Yeah? What's this about?” He directed his distracted frustration at Dean.

“Seems Sam was acting as free legal help for them. Helped get them off.” He waved the binder. Bobby's frustration transformed into interest. He accepted it and began browsing.

“You go, kid.” The older man muttered to himself.

“You happen to know a hunter named Gabriel Coelum, too?”

“Not a Gabriel, but I did hear of a Charlus Coelum a few times, not very social, always draggin along a few boys with'im.”

“Hm...” Dean gazed consideringly down at the photo on the inside of one of the books. He slipped it out and pulled the folded up photo from his wallet.

Same face.

“I think Sam's roomie was a hunter.”

Bobby looked up.

“Think he's one a Charlus' boys?”

“Probably. I don't think I've ever seen a hunter's journal so cleverly hidden, though.” Bobby peered at them for a moment.

“Pro'bly cause you never seen a complete journal.”

“Dad's journal was plenty full.” He protested. “He just kept adding pages to it.”

“That ain't complete. Ya daddy ain't done. I think this boy was.”

“A former hunter.”

“Mhm.”

“Maybe an old hunt caught up with him and Sam spooked for nothing.” Dean theorized hopefully.

Bobby, in turn, ruthless shot it down.

“Yer brother ain't no fool. An remember he only ran after the police came by.”

Dean sighed, but place the books in his extremely small 'save' pile.

“We need the police report.” Bobby spoke up, startling Dean.

“You have a way to do that? Cause I got nothing.”

Bobby got a peculiar look on in face. “I... know a guy.”

Dean's eyebrows scrunched in bemusement. “You don't sound so sure about that.”

The older man huffed slightly and shook his head. “Just leave it at that. I'll see what he can dig up for me.”

Dean nodded and turned back to the boxes. “What to do in the meantime, though.”

Bobby snorted. “You not enjoying yer crap pile?” He gestured to his half excavated living room.

Dean rolled his eyes. They were both saved from what was sure to be a well delivered bit of sarcasm, by the ring of Bobby's phone.

With a fair bit of effort, Bobby stood and wandered into the kitchen, leaving Dean alone with the boxes. Deciding to give up for the day, he stuffed the books back into the boxes and shoved those boxes into the corner opposite the rest of them.

Dean sighed and stood, pouring himself some of Bobby's bourbon.

The office was far more organized than the living room, but that wasn't saying much. Both Dean and Bobby had done a fair bit of reorganization in relation to Sam's stuff, the older man having also claimed several of the shelves that had come with his brother's stuff. Damages, he claimed.

But now, centered on Bobby's desk and floating about half a foot off the surface and glowing like a star, was a silver ring with a sapphire-like gem set into it. It also had the unpleasant effect of making you feel like you were being judged.

This was what Sam was supposed to pick up before he disappeared.

Dean wondered if this was why his little brother was being hunted.

Someone cleared their throat, startling him out of his thoughts and bourbon out of his glass.

“Shit, Bobby!” He placed his glass down and began wiping the traitorous liquid out of his shirt. Bobby, snorted unsympathetically.

“Serves you right, stealing my bourbon.” The older man snatched Dean glass from where it rested and downed it in one go.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Who was that on the phone?”

“Jackson and Craig O'Toole.” He replied. “Coupla Irish transplant hunters. Thought they had work down in Indiana, turns some other hunter beat 'em to it. Said it matched Sam's description.”

Dean's face scrunched in confusion.

“I sent out word to a coupla places that we're lookin' fer someone.” Bobby explained. “Places lots a hunters go. Bars, safe-houses, stuff like that.”

“How come I don't know about these places?” Dean asked leaning forward. Bobby snorted.

“That a serious question? Yer daddy ain't the friendliest of the bunch, an' fer hunters that's sayin' a lot.”

“Would Dad, or hell, even Sam, know anything about them?”

“John, maybe. Doubt yer brother knows anymore'n you do.” Dean nodded and filed away the info for later, before turning to the other pressing news.

“So what'd they say about him.”

“Said, he acted kinda... odd.” Bobby gained a few worry lines on his forehead. “Said he wasn't a shifter er nothin. Did all the tests, but didn't stay long after that.”

“Did he tell them where he was goin?”

“Nah, but there still down there fer a few days if you wanna go investigate fer yerself.”

“And leave you to this fun?” Dean gestured to the other room sarcastically.

“Go, I'll deal fine a few days. Sides, guy I'm callin don't like strangers.” He got that same odd look on his face.

“Sure you wanna subject yourself to that?” Dean guessed.

“No, but we need those files. An' neither of us are exactly amazin with tech.” He slapped the top of his beige box of a computer.

“If you're sure?”

“Go, get.” He shooed. “If only fer my sanity. I like you Winchesters but you can be tryin' in large doses.”

“Does that make me dope?”

Bobby let out a frustrated sigh and fled the room. Dean smirked after him. He did eventually grab his bag, some of Bobby's extra supplies, and one of the older man's caps.

“Headin out, Bobby. You got the address for me?” He asked when the house's owner finally came back with a relatively small leather book.

“First page, as well as some stuff I know about the hunt.” Dean raised a brow. “Don't gimme that. Hunt was on my radar, plus yer shit with details. Write whatever you find out, take picture, clip articles, shit like that.”

“You want me to start a journal?”

“Should've done it before. Now's a good a time's ever.”

Dean flipped open the journal to thick unlined paper, an address scrawled in small handwriting.

“Burkitsville, huh.” He shrugged on his jacket and stuck Bobby's hat on, quietly reveling in the annoyed look on Bobby's face. “Alright. I'll call you if I find anything.”

“You better, you id-” The door swung closed on Bobby's words.

Dean stuffed his bag in the trunk and started up his baby. With a final glance at Bobby's house, he drove out onto the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all happy with the story so far. 3rd shift is murder on the body, sleep, and muses, so I'm sorry for the wait. I'm not abandoning this story.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lecture on nuclear fission/fusion the other day and that somehow led to the completion of this chapter. Maybe that's an omen?
> 
> Anyway, tell me what you think. I do love complements, they are good for my ego, but I prefer constructive critiques. Sometimes even flames can be useful, too.
> 
> Have fun and hope you like it!  
> LL
> 
> P.S. This is veeerryy unedited. Sorry for any mistakes

The motel the O'Tooles were staying at, the Bluebird, sat about twenty minutes west of Burkitsville.  It was the typical affair, two levels, blue siding, and blue doors with little iron bird knockers just below the room number.

 

As Dean carefully pulled into the parking lot, he saw a figure on the second floor.  He couldn't quite make out the figure's features with sun in his face, but they weren't being visibly hostile, so he pulled the Impala to a stop in front of the building and stepped out.

 

“Oi!  Winchester?”  The figure called down, voice croaking slightly.  It wasn't enough to decern an accent, but Dean was willing to bet it was an O'Toole brother.

 

“You Jackson?  Or Craig?”

 

The figure let out a bark of laughter.  “Craig!  Up, ye git!”  The figure shoved the door behind him open with his foot and swaggered in.  He left the door open behind him.

 

Dean shook his head.  He grabbed his new journal and phone and locked his door.  He swiftly climbed the stairs, following Craig inside.

 

The brothers were seated inside at the little blue table, one of those new apple laptops in front of them.  A few books and papers were scattered over the rest of the table, accompanied by empty coffee cups and fast food wrappers.

 

The brothers themselves weren't what he expected.  Though his impression of Irish people was more short and ginger with lots of freckles, than was probably realistic.

 

The older one, or at least the one he assumed was older, was _large_.  He was even taller than Sam at maybe 6' 7” and deffinitely larger, even sitting down.  Where Sam was long and lanky, O'Toole was thick and burly.  His head was shaved smooth and was heavily tanned with only barest hint of freckles.  Sparkling brown eyes peaked out from behind his thick, heavy brows.  His arms visible from the elbow down were completely tattooed, and from the peak of ink at his shirt collar, he figured the rest of him was as well.

 

The younger was shorter than his brother, maybe even shorter than Dean, but it was harder to tell with him seated.  He was not as large as his brother, though just as tattooed, but Dean could still see corded muscle on his forearms and bisceps.  He posessed a full head of thick black hair, pulled back in a short  ponytail with an equally thick black beard.  His eyes were blue-grey and very large, set high on his face over a recently broken nose.  It was still an ugly purple-green mess, but there was no blood and it hadn't been set.

 

“Oi, Winchester.  Ya gonna stare at me brother's ugly mug all day?”  The larger one asked, a bit of a tease in his words.  “I know he's got a face like blind cobbler's thumb, but mine's so much prettier.”

 

“Arse.”  Broken-nose griped back, knocking a fist into his brother's shoulder.  “We share a fuckin face.”

 

Dean smirked and sat across from them, shoving his things on the table and swiping his hat off.  He leant over, placing his elbows on his knees.

 

“So, Craig and Jackson?”  He pointed to the large guy and the broken-nose respectively.

 

“'n yer Dean, yeah?”  Jackson asked nasily.  “Ol' Bobby rang, said you'd come.”

 

“He said you guys ran into Sam lookin for a hunt.”

 

“Aye we did.  Dunno if it's this Sam, though.  Failed to introduce 'imself, he did.  Right rude.”  Jackson complained.  His eyes squinted in annoyance.

 

Craig rolled his eyes.  “Barmy git.  My brother's just sore 'cause he got it in the nose from your man.”  Said brother muttered what was probably a few choice words under his breath.  “He did the tests an' passed 'em with flyin' colours.”

 

“But...”  Dean prompted.

 

Craig obligingly continued.  “But, he was off.  Looked completely knackered fer one-”

 

“Fer another,” Jackson interrupted, “he's mad as a box o' frogs.”

 

Craig gave the other O'Toole a look.  “Jack's a right ponce 'bout it, but he ain't wrong.  Reason we made 'im do all the tests was, after he gave me brother a right good dig in the face, he were talkin to 'imself.  Mutterin like a right loon.”

 

It took Dean a few moments to decipher his words, but what he translated didn't sound good at all.

 

“Did you hear what he was saying?  Any part of it?”

 

“Mentioned a sword.”  O’Toole the younger glanced at his brother.  “Aidonis or somethin’.”

 

“Aidonis.”  He repeated.  “Thanks.  Is there anything else you can remember?  His car, which direction he was heading, anything like that?”  He glanced at both of them, searching for any reaction.

 

He was rewarded with a head shake from Craig but Jackson tilted his head to the side.

 

“Ye feel like sharin’, little Jacky?”  Craig asked, eyebrow raised.

 

Jackson responded with a glare and punch to the shoulder.  Craig barely moved, and Dean wasn’t really sure he even felt it seeing as the giant was still smirking questioningly at his little brother.

 

Finally, though, Jackson responded.  “He were headed to town, I reckon.”

“Thanks again.”  Dean responded.  It occurred to him at that moment, that the brothers were doing this probono if you will.  Quickly, he tore a corner out of the journal Bobby gave him and scribbled his number down.  “If you need help with a hunt, some research, or even a drink, that’s my number.”

 

“Ha!  Might take you up on that drink offer some time!”  Craig crowed, snatching the paper out of his brother’s reach.  Jackson just rolled his eyes.

 

“If yer ever lookin’ fer a drink, we hang round the Roadhouse.  Bobby knows where it is.”  The younger O’Toole added.

 

Dean and the two brothers exchanged goodbyes, then he was on the road to town.

 

He thought he liked the brothers, something that he was honestly suriprised with.  Dad had always told him hunters were just as paranoid as him and Bobby, but the O’Tooles were positively outgoing in comparison to those two.

 

A rather unsettling opinion was forming in the back of his mind, he knew, so he quickly shook off those thoughts and refocused on the road ahead.

 

The first place he came upon, was a diner.  The sign declared it “SCOTTY’S,” though the lights were off and it seemed to be empty.

 

He pulled into one of the tight parking spots and climbed out.  He peered in the darkened window, noting the blinds seemed to have been ripped off the frame, dangling limply from a lone bracket.  Some of the tables inside were toppled on their sides, chairs upended with few legs snapped off.

 

There was a pool of dark liquid pooling behind one of the tables.

 

Dean’s eyes were riveted on the pool.  He could not tell the color of the liquid - it was simply too dark to tell - but he feared that it was blood.

 

He tested the door, noting with some relief that it opened easily.  He pulled his gun out, and began a careful search of the room.

 

He couldn’t hear anyone moving behind the counter, nor could he see any lights in the kitchen or office.  Nothing seemed to be powered, even the fridge.  The air was stale and stagnant, days old.  As he approched the liquid on the floor he saw that shattered jar that had been hidden behind the upturned table.

 

With a huff of relief, he holstered his gun and bent down tabbing a bit of the liquid to his mouth.

 

Wow.  That was amazing.

 

He blinked at the jar, formerly full of a delicious apple jam.  His eyes roamed the shelves for any more jars.  He was sorely disapointed.

 

“Hello?”  He finally called through the room.

 

There was movement almost immediately, and what sounded like exhausted grumbling coming from the ceiling.  There was some shuffling and then the sounds of feet on wooden stairs.  He saw kitchen light flick on under the door.  Then the door swung open.

 

The figure backlit from the kitchen was short and slouched and appeared to have something on their head.

 

“The lights in here are broken.”  The shockingly young voice told him.  He strode into the kitchen, not quite understanding the obligingness of his feet.

 

The lit kitchen was in just as much disarray as the dining room, but it looked like someone had attempted to clean it.  The broom and dustpan tossed into the middle painted the picture of frustration.  The teenage girl standing in the midst of such a mess seemed to fit that picture just as easily, tossled bed head, plaid flanel pants, and an Indiana State Sycamores jersey.

 

“Are you a local?  What do you want?”  It was strange but she seemed to become more standoffish when she was wondering if he was a local.

 

“Um, I’m not a local.”  Her shoulders relaxed visibly, slouching down once more.  “I’m looking for someone, actually.  Sorry for the breaking and entering, by the way.”  He added.  “It looked like a fight happened.”

 

“Something certainly happened.”  She muttered waveringly, rage cleared in her eyes.  She seemed on the verge of screaming for a moment, then took a heavy breath.  “Sorry.  It’s been a long few days.”

 

“Did someone break in?”

 

“In a way.”  Her reply was just as cagey and vague as before.  She shook her head.  “Anyway.  You said you were looking for somebody?  You a PI or something?  And it wasn’t really breaking anything, was it?  The lock’s busted.”

 

He peered reflexively back at the door, though he couldn’t see anything save the light through the windows.

 

“Uh, no, I’m looking for my brother.”  He replied, turning back.  “He disappeared a few weeks ago.  I’m hoping you’ve seen him.”

 

She gave him a heavily anylitical stare.  It didn’t seem to match her age at all.

 

Finally, though, she seemed to judge him worthy.  “Do you have a picture?”

 

He pulled the slightly crumpled photo out, and handed it over.  He pointed at the tallest figure standing in it.

 

“That’s him.  Sam.”  She nodded, looking the picture over.  Her eyes were riveted on it.

 

“You’re his brother?”

 

“Yeah, older brother.”  He confirmed.  She looked at him with furrowed brows.

 

“You’re Dean.”  She wasn’t asking.  She looked from the picture, to Dean’s face, and then the picture once more.

 

For the first time in years, Dean wanted to look more like Sam.  Though he may have more of Mom’s features, Sam had a strength about him, similar to what he saw in Dad.

 

But the teen aparently deemed him similar enough, nodding her head decisively.  She fished a slip of paper out of her pocket, handing it and the photo to him.

 

“He asked me to give that to you when you showed up.”  Dean blinked.

 

“He knew I was looking for him?”  He really wanted to be angry at his little brother for worrying the shit out of him but at that moment, all he could feel was relief.

 

“He seemed pretty certain.”  She shrugged.  “He took care of everything like he knew what was going to happen before he got here.”

 

Filing that away for later, he asked, “What exactly _did_ happen here?”

 

Her fury returned with a vengence.  “This _fucking_ town is _nuts._ ”  She paused, sweeping a hand at the mess on the floor.  “My aunt, uncle, and half this _goddamn_ town were sacrificing out of towners to some pagan god in the orchard.”

 

Dean’s eyebrows shot up his forehead as he let out an low whistle.

 

“Yeah.”  She agreed, twitching in agitation.  “My aunt and uncle run the gas station.  When the last couple they tried to _sacrifice_ escaped, they decided they needed to sacrifice me and one of the local boys.”

 

“But…?” he prodded.

 

“Your brother swung in like some kind of knight and saved me and Tony, the boy.”  She informed him, a smile alighting at the mention of the boy.  “He told us to run and when we saw him again he’d done something that killed the orchard.  My aunt and uncle were screaming about him being a god killer.”  She shrugged.

 

Dean frowned and glanced around again.  “What made all this damage, then?”

 

She shrugged.  “Maybe Tony and I were a little pissed off.  We grabbed some bats from the back and just started smashing the place up.  Scotty tried to clean at one point.”  She shrugged again.

 

“Why aren’t you staying with your aunt and uncle, then?”  She scoffed.

 

“I’m not staying in the same building as family that’s try to kill me.  Anyway, Scotty left town after we started smashing this place up, so I figured, why not?”  She frowned and added, “I’m Emily, by the way.”

 

He took her hand and shook it, offering her his signature charming smirk.  Not quite blue steal – she was fifteen for christsake – but enough that she smiled back.

 

“Thanks, Emily.  For all the help.”

 

“Anytime.”  She grinned.

 

He was heading out when his eyes alighted on the smashed jar once more.  “Hey, Emily?  You really want to piss Scotty off?”

 

She cocked her head in interest.  He pointed at the mess on the floor.

 

“Mind if I take a few?  For strictly proffessional purposes, of course.”  She beamed.

 

He walked out of the broken shell of a diner and plopped the several jars of apple jam into his passenger seat.  Then he pulled out the slip of paper from Sam.

 

It was torn from some sort of journal, probably.  The paper was stiff, discolored, and slightly curled at the corner.  When he lifted it to his nose, it smelled of coffee, gun powder,  and alcohol.  It seemed that a small piece of someone else’s writing had been captured along with Sam’s, only the last few letters of a few words but messily stenciled in with a pencil.

 

The note from Sam was more important, of course, but Dean didn’t like what that same analysis told him.

 

The words were written with a shaky hand where Sam’s had always been neat and steady.  The words trailed down slightly, not in neat and even lines like they used to.  The pressure varied on each letter as though they were written with different hands.

 

He might have been able to pass this off as simply a change in hand writing, were it not for his stuff, essays and notes, stored at Bobby’s. 

 

The words were just as obscure as the writing.  Not like the Sam he knew at all.  Little to no emotion in the phrasing, rather impersonal, as well.  It could have been a note for anyone if Emily hadn’t said anything.

 

F **i** _n_ d   ** _Ai_** d _o_ n _e_ **u** s _S_ **w** o _r_ d.

_W_ a **t** c _h_ o **u** _t f_ o **r t _h_** e _al **l**_ **f** a _t_ he **r’** _s **b**_ **la** _ **d**_ e _s._


End file.
